


Honey; Sherlocks obsession

by Mybenediction1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Fetish, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Triggers, Virgin Sherlock, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mybenediction1/pseuds/Mybenediction1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has honey for breakfast; Sherlock finds himself in an odd predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I kept meaning to write a follow up to Jam; Johns obsession. And then the honey thing happened and it all got carried away.

Chapter 1.

Honey.

You've got a jar of honey this morning. I think you won it at some charity raffle at work.

I would say the little pink scrap of ribbon tied around the jar edge suggests so. No doubt Sarah organised some cancer thing that you felt you had to take part in.

On the other hand it is a good make at least. It has one of those little dippers attached to it made out of pine and a handmade label with lavender flowers on it.

I'm not sure that it is lavender based though. When you opened it I got the distinct smell of heather rather than lavender. Maybe there is an edge of lavender, but that is not its prime make up. The label also mentions it originates from Dorset, probably a small holding. I'd say there is more heather readily available to bees in Dorset than there is lavender.

Honey.

You're fiddling with the string now that attaches the dipper to the jar.   
Your fingers are thicker than mine, the ends blunter and you struggle with the tiny bow and even more with the double knot.

You start when I reach over to help you. Your hand is warm and soft as I brush it by accident, your eyes shoot up to look at me and there's a slight frown of confusion. I hold your gaze for just over three seconds. It's enough for me to ascertain the slight dilation of your pupils. You pull your hand away. Skin slips past my own.

Honey.

I undo the knot swiftly. My fingers are used to fine work and are sharper at the ends than your own.

There is a rustle of string pulling through string as I pull the server free of its bonds. I hold it up and turn it over between my fingers, noting the grain and turn of the wood. There is a tiny bee burnt into the handle.

I pass it across to you. You take it fingers brushing mine, sending fascinating tingles up into them. The strange circuitry of the body reacting to touch. It is enough to make me pause and relish the feeling. Then I pull my hand back too quickly. Maybe you noticed. Even though I doubt it I feel my cheeks heat just a little at the possibility of being caught out.

I glance up and catch you looking at me slightly perplexed. But then your often perplexed by my behaviour; maybe the idea of me helping you is what the look is for and not the too long a pause in proceedings.   
"Thanks." You murmur as you place the dipper by your plate of toast.

Honey.

I drop my eyes and pretend to read the newspaper and sip my tea. It is too hot but you always get the quantities of milk ratio to sugar ratio just right.   
I shouldn't look as you pick up the jar that sits closer to you than myself, but I can't help but look up surreptitiously. I watch through my lashes alert for any move that might suggest you are doing the same.

You don't dip into the jar the way I expected you to. Instead you slide a finger into the silken sticky substance and bring that finger glistening up to your mouth. You taste the golden treat with the tip of your tongue and suddenly I want to smear it onto your lips and lick it off. Or as an alternative spread it over mine and see if you would lick it off my lips instead.

I swallow. My mouth is too wet. I carefully put fingers against my own pulse. Oh, this is becoming ridiculous. My pulse is too fast and in an attempt to distract my Judus of a body I count the beats for exactly a minute. It works, but I obviously lost myself in doing the task because I suddenly know you are watching me even though I'm not watching you.

Honey.

"What?" You ask.   
"Apis mellifera." I answer, though if you ask me in ten years time why I said that I will probably still not be able to tell you. You blink at me. Once.   
"What?" You repeat. I actually cannot think of an answer, probably because there isn't a decent or plausible one. My brain seems to have become sticky with the same syrup that's clinging to your finger.   
"Honey bees." I blurt out. My voice sounds wrong.   
"Right..." You say in that way that tells me you have no idea what I'm on about but luckily for me you intend not to pursue it.

Honey.

I say luckily for me. My luck runs out as you draw your finger into your mouth still watching me with concerned interest.

I have to be honest I've never had much interest in sex. I find it to be a boring, tedious chore. One that I have skipped by choice, save a few small encounters in my middle youth.   
But obviously the body has to be tended to from time to time, whether it be eating, sleeping or a need to release the body's pent up frustrations in order to relax by indulging in masterbation.

Again this is a tedious distraction, but sometimes necessary. Until recently. It is not so tedious now, nor so infrequent. I barely noticed at first; but it has increased by sixty percent in the last six months. As have phantom manifestations of you.

Honey.

I feel my eyes shut of their own accord. But it's too late. The image is already there and has made it to the room in my mind palace marked John and then into the small dusty box contained within. The box that should be marked; John - do not open. Could be dangerous.  
But that box will be opened again tonight I already know it. My body knows it. My brain knows it. It is making connections I cannot possibly ignore. And suddenly it conjures up a new image, unbidden. It is no longer your finger that you are sucking.

Honey.

I open my eyes to reality, unsure which is better or worse; the fantasy that is veering off into dangerous territory or reality, with honey and fingers and lips that are much too close.

You are frowning at me, but I think I may have got away with it. You will mark it down as another Sherlockianism and tell yourself it's all fine. You begin to butter you toast. The scalping sound covering up my slightly heavy breathing and hopefully the loud beating of my heart.

Honey.

You pick up the dipper and turn it in your hands.   
"Well any plans for today?" You ask, absently playing with the smooth wood. I manage to make my voice work enough to reply that nothing is planned. Maybe I should check that honey for any irregularities. At least then I could satisfy myself that this was an aberration beyond my control. You nod and mention your blog and a case your writing up. I do not believe I heard a word of what you said as you absently began to stroke the dipper between finger and thumb, in an up and down motion. Apparently that was the key to finally draining my brain of all the blood that usually makes thinking possible as it headed to other and what it deemed more important areas.

Honey.

You don't seem to have noticed which at least is a blessing. Maybe I can get away and deal with this efficiently before you notice something is wrong. But my brain will not function and that up and down movement keeps on and on.

And then the final turning point happens, you twist the dipper in you fingers and lower it into the jar. You swirl it and gather the honey with a slight cant, down and up, in and out. For gods sakes you are torturing me and I begin to believe it might be deliberate; John you are basically fucking the honey jar.

Honey.

I want to say that to you, I was going to say something, anything to distract you from the task in front of you, but when I open my mouth all that comes out is a whimper. My eyes widen and I clamp my mouth shut tight. Grit my teeth.

You heard and you pause for a long moment, staring at the jar, at the dipper. Then you withdraw it and place it very carefully on your plate.

You look up. I want to look away but that would be an admittance of guilt.   
Your eyes meet mine steady and soft with just a glint of humour and a dash of calculating deviance.

You look at me for a long time and if I hadn't have been across the table from you I would have dipped my head and kissed those honeyed lips.

Then you smile, it is barely perceivable but I see it. You draw the jar to you and dip that same finger into it again. Your eyes don't leave mine.

Honey.

You raise your hand up slowly, some dim sense is telling me that I've stopped breathing; but breathings boring anyway. You lick the tip of your finger and then close your eyes as if in the grip of ecstasy. Then you put that finger into your mouth and suck on it.

Okay the desire to breathe became to much and I take a sharp breath.   
Your eyes snap open and a slow smile twitches around your still full mouth.

You withdraw the digit and stand. I imagine by now I look like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights and the need to flee is irresistible.

I go to stand as well, intending to pull my robe around me and make a dive for my room. Sometimes I forget how quick you really are. Sometimes I forget your army instincts. Because suddenly you are behind my chair, your hand comes down on my shoulder and presses me gently down. Heat seeping into my skin from your palm. It feels heavy. I feel heavy, almost as if I were drugged.

You don't say anything, you just lean across over my shoulder and pull the pot of honey over the table, the dragging sound of glass on wood. I feel the tension building in the air and I realise I have no idea what you are going to do or what I am doing.

Honey.

You dip your finger once again into the jar and draw it out dripping with golden strands that scuttle back down into the jar. You wait until gravity has done it's work. Your mouth is near my ear, I can feel your breath on the shell, on my neck, warm and humid and completely wonderful. My skin goosebumps beneath the onslaught of sensation, so tangibly close. I want to turn my head and stop it. Close my mouth over yours and seal in the air, take your breath into my body where it can do no more mischief.

Your arm moves against my shoulder, wool brushing my neck as you draw your finger away from the jar and towards us. I realise I am trembling; from what I don't know. My brain won't determine what is happening.

Your finger grows closer and I follow it, something in my gut twisting. Warm and coiling and I am afraid. Butterfly's beating their wings hard against my ribs, my heart wants to burst free of it cage of bone. And then your finger strokes my mouth, I freeze still as a statue. I must feel like warm marble as your chest presses against my shoulders and you lean further forward.

You don't stop though, you just carefully paint my mouth with honey. You trace the edges first, from the bottom right to the bottom left. And then over my upper lips, slowing to feel my utterly ludicrous Cupid bow and down again to the bottom. You begin the journey again, moving inward. After the third circle I realise I have to breathe. My lungs are begging for air and my lips part in order for them to take enough in. I feel you breath on my cheek and can't help but tilt my head slightly to observe you. To drown or enlighten the hope that is making my heart beat almost painfully.

Your eyes are watching my face and your own is flushed. Pupils dilate as you watch the progress you are making. Your finger reaches the gap in my lips and stops and waits.

My eyes close and my tongue, without any command I am aware of, darts out to touch the honey covered pad.

I feel you stiffen and I know I should stop, this is not a game you and I should play. But my body isn't listening. My mouth comes down over the tip of your finger and sweetness invades my senses. My tongue joins not wanting to be left out. And then I am sucking you in further and I hear you moan brokenly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some trigger issues here. Vague non-con references and sexual abuse/bullying. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented. I promise you every tag; just let the story grow first. ;)

Chapter 2.

Honey.

The sound of your sudden and barely suppressed moan makes me bolder.

You cannot cover up the whisper of desire that sounds out like a bell, whether this started as a game to you or not.

I suck harder at the digit, flicking the pad with my tongue as though I have something else in my mouth. I grasp your wrist and withdraw for a second, before taking the neighbouring digit in along side it's brother.

Yes, that is good. My lips feel slightly stretched now and if I really try I can imagine something better, something larger fitting into the warm space of my mouth.

I feel you pulling back but I have your hand firm, locked in an iron grip. My tongue licks along the line between your fingers and into the webbing where they are rooted to your hand. And then you whimper against my ear. I pull off slowly; maybe the game is over. My chest does a somersault.

Honey.

Letting go of your wrist I expect you pull away and chastise me. Shout at me, say 'what the hell Sherlock!' and storm out and stay on Sarah's sofa for a week. But you don't. You don't move.

Oh God John, I might actually die if you don't say something. Do something. You can hit me if you like, tell me never again to be such an idiot, go into denial again. Anything but this warm heavy silence that feels like a blanket trying to directly smother my lungs.

And then you move.

Honey.

The hand I just released comes forward and lightly strokes across my chin and jaw. I can't breathe until you softly whisper the word.

I gasp, I flounder like a fish on land unable to make sense of the new world that is opening up around him. Like the fish I'm not sure if I'll survive. But then you turn my head with gentle but determined pressure so that I look at you.

"No one has ever had you have they?" You ask softly, although I think it maybe rhetorical. Your eyes are serious. I give the barest shake of my head. Your lips quirk up a little.  
"But you've been thinking about it though?" My eyes must answer the question because you smile again just slightly and I see my answer in your eyes.  
"Did you have anyone in particular in mind?" My eyes must have flashed panic, my body going stiff as I try and make my mind work enough to stop this here; because, John, you can't really want me.

"Hush." You sooth "breathe." I do. I feel like I'm drowning in the honey you painted my lips with. I lick them desperately.  
"I won't do anything you don't want." I hear you say. But, John, don't you see? I want everything I just can't communicate it. Then suddenly your forehead is rested against my own. Your eyes look into mine, dark and stormy now as if you are fighting your own nature. Your lips are so near, all I'd need to do is tilt my head and press and press into the soft warmth of them.

Honey.

I do tilt my head, my body has apparently taken command of the control centre in my head and I am helpless. Maybe I was always helpless when it came to you; but now you're so close I can't stand not to do what my body wants.

My lips brush yours. That is all. Just a brush. But apparently that was all the consent I needed to give. You lower your head and take my own between your hands. Your fingers curve into my hair, feeling it, rubbing it between finger and thumb. Then thumbs are drawing soft soothing circles against my scalp and I can't help the moan that pushes up from my lungs and escapes my lips. And then you kiss me. Soft, undemanding. I don't know what to do in answer so I allow you to do as you wish. Your tongue traces the edges of my mouth. From the bottom right to the bottom left. And then over my upper lips. Again you pause and seem to relish the feel of my cupid's bow and then you begin the slow circle again. The honey you put there is licked away and I am left gasping for breath. Before I can catch it you capture my lips again with yours. They move slowly against my own, coaxing the rhythm my body seems to already know. I have not been kissed like this before.

Honey.

I remember Sebastian kissing me. Up against the fireplace in the second library of the university. It wasn't like this. It was rough, careless. Tongue forced down my throat as he pulled my trousers down and rutted between my buttocks. Did I deserve pleasure? No apparently not. I was too worthless for that. No warm hand bringing me off, I was just cold and shamed. He left me as soon as he had shot. His cum drying on me, growing cold. That was the day after our final exams.

The desperation for human contact took me so low. The constant jibes, the loneliness. I swore never again.

I shut this off.

Honey.

You warm me slowly, it is like my heart is melting from cold stone to dark liquid amber. It seeps through my veins making every sense buzz.

But I am afraid. What if this is all you want? What if this is a moment of madness? An impulse.

I pull back, my eyes wide, trying to read you. My body is screaming for more. More more more of you and your mouth and your hands and your scent and your...

"Stop." You whisper, hands in my hair stroking gently, soothing me with fingertips.

I need to think. I jerk back. Panic grips me, my chest closes down, my throat closes up and I cannot breathe.

"Stop. Breathe." You say. "I won't touch you. I'm sorry." I see the pain flash in your eyes as you drop them to try and hide how you are feeling. Always trying to protect me. I want to speak. To explain. But I can't. I am just trying to breathe.

You hold your hands up in gesture of defeat, making sure I can see that you mean what you say. You go to move back.

"John..." My voice is hollow and dark and not my own. Broken. I manage to turn to look up at you.  
Your face is slightly flushed and you look embarrassed and uncomfortable. You look fixedly over my shoulder at some far of place.  
"John..." I manage again, turning further towards you, shifting my chair and grabbing a hip in one hand. You feel so warm against my palm.

You look at me then and whatever you see must shake you because suddenly you are on your knees in front of me, whether by design or by accident I can't deduce.

"I'm.. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry Sherlock; I never..." You begin. Fear flashes in your eyes. My hand is still on your hip and in an attempt to calm you I squeeze it hard. It's as if you become suddenly aware of it and you stop. You look into my eyes as I grip harder, trying to ground myself. You are my rock.

Honey.

"John." I say "I can't do this..." You nod sadly. I try and make my words work. "I can't do this..." It's all fine "...if this is all this is." I manage. And suddenly it all becomes clear. That is not all this is.

Your eyes have always been so open to me, from the moment I first saw you. I see as hope blooms behind them, the suppressed fire for a second leaps and dances and the look in your eyes surely must reflect my own need for you.

"Is that what..." You begin, and you sound like you are trying to talk around a stone that is caught in your throat. "... My god... You are so..." Damaged. Yes. Will you have me?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows Sherlock that not all things are the same.

Chapter 3.

Honey.

Your hand comes up to hover by my face.   
"I'm going to touch you." You say "is that okay?" God yes. Yes please.

I nod.

Your hand comes down against my cheek softly and strokes it softly, slightly cupping my jaw. Your thumb draws a line down over my cheekbone, tracing the shape.  
It is evidently a pleasing shape as you continue that line as you speak to me.

"Sherlock. I... I could be making a complete fool of myself here... But..." I shake my head just enough for you to know.   
"No." I say. "Your deduction is correct."   
"But?" John asks.   
"Mine were off." I say with a small bitter smile. "You see what sentiment does to me John?"   
"Sentiment... Oh." You say. There is a pause and your fingers drift to stroke back my hair softly. It feels so good. I push into it. Greedy for your warmth. The warmth that seems to seep out every pore and is wasted on those women you bring home every so often. They have a wealth of warmth already whereas I have none.   
"Can I kiss you?" I ask suddenly, the words pushing past my lips before I've time to figure them out.   
"God yes." You say horsely. My hands come up to your head and I allow my fingers to mirror your own. It is fascinating, the feel of your hair as I stroke through it gently. Feeling the different textures. I stroke over your face learning the shape with my fingers. Catching the slight bristle of stubble.

Honey.

I must have smiled then, as my eyes caressed your mouth already blooming from our previous caress. A little 'bee stung'.

"What?" You murmur quietly to me. Dropping one hand away I bring my finger back glinting with gold.   
"You have a fetish you know." You say with a small smile.

I brush my fingers over your mouth in the same way you did mine. Painting your lips for my own. When I'm done I subconsciously put my finger into my mouth and began to suck the remaining honey from it.

And then you whimper. My eyes meet with yours, yours are dilated and I feel my own do the same. You whimper again and I feel little shocks of arousal sparkle down my spine and twitch into my cock.

"Please." You whisper "please Sherlock..."

I release my finger with an obscene pop, it wasn't what I was aiming for I have to say but by the look on your face it worked well

I weave my hands into your hair and press my forehead to your own.   
"I can't... have this for now." I say, I hope you know what that means.

I forget; You're John Watson. Of course you know.

"Forever." You say, "like it was anything else." My mouth touches yours tentative and soft. Your mouth reaches for mine and you groan softly in pleasure.

I lick the honey from your lips, greedy now for the warmth that is melting the sweet syrup. You open your mouth to mine and I enter you for the first time. Your tongue dances against my own. You let me explore everywhere I need to. Anywhere I wish. I can feel that you want to touch me but your hands remain resolutely still. I want you to touch me now, now that I know. But I am so lost in this that I cannot bare to break from you to tell you as much.

Salt mixes with honey, I'm not sure which of us produced the bitter edge. It doesn't matter. Maybe it is us both.

But even you cannot stop yourself when it comes to wiping my tears away.

Honey.

Finally we break and your stroke your fingers through the lines of salt that lay on my skin.

"More." I say.   
"Are you sure?" You ask.   
Yes.

Your hands falter as they move down to caress the column of my throat. I tilt my head back a little. You draw fingers down over my cararoid artery, over the apple in my throat following the bobbing motion of it as I swallow nervously.

"Beautiful." You saw as if in awe of me. Do you know how ridiculous that is John? I must have made a sound to that effect.   
"You are. Who told you you weren't?" Everyone. You are tracing each vein under my skin now. "Look at you." You breathe before looking up at me. "Can I kiss..." You indicate my neck.   
"Anywhere." I say roughly. You make a little sound; a cross between a whimper of desire and a splutter of disbelief.  
"Up." You say and I do. A little twitch of something sparks from my brain and into my cock, something about the sound of your voice, the command? I have little time to think of it as you push me against the table.

Honey.

"Sherlock." You say "I will ask you before I do anything." I nod, my heart feels all twisted up "but know this; I want everything." I gasp as you push between my legs with your own and stand between them. You must be able to feel my cock like this. It is hot and heavy between my legs. I blush but you seem unperturbed. And then your lips are on mine again and this time it is not so gentle and I moan under the onslaught as everything seems to pulse. I hear my heart, feel it in my head, my wrists, down into my stomach and especially in my cock.

I kiss back this time, giving as good as I'm getting. My tongue wrapping about yours, mating and dancing. I want you closer. You press closer. Your chest against mine, pressing, pressing. Maybe if we press enough we can become one. Join and pass through one another. Fuse together.

Finally you break the furious mating of our mouths and move down, kissing along my face and jaw. You nuzzle into my neck and take in the scent of me. Slow kisses are dropped and I don't know what to do with my hands. Finally I settle on your hair as you didn't seem to mind that before. I hear myself making a sound that I never knew I could make. A mewling delirious noise.

Your teeth scrape the fine skin of my throat and without my bidding my hips snap forward. The sound that is ripped from both of our throats is delicious. Obscene. You pull back.

"Sherlock." You say warningly.   
"Do. What. You. Want." I pant above you. You pull back to look into my eyes. Your eyes are feral, hungry and I am your prey. And I want to be.

Honey.

Hands run along my sides, it almost tickles, it is light as you trace my ribs through the thin material of my sleep shirt. I am too thin I know. You are always telling me. You give a wicked smile that makes me shiver, it is a smile that tells me that you know exactly what you are doing, what you're about to do and what it will do to me. You slide my dressing gown away from me. It pools on the table where I'm pressed and rustles as it falls and falters.

The silk clings and caress my arms as gravity takes it, every hair sensitive now to the slightest friction.

You press kisses against my throat, you bite at my Adam's apples and smile against my skin as I make a surprised sound.

"Off." You command, pulling at my shirt. I slip forward slightly and you let go and watch as I pull the shirt over my head without hesitation.

Why is it that I trust you? No one has ever seen this much of me. A press of cock against buttock in a dark room cannot be classed the same as this. I inwardly laugh, it is absurd that I ever thought that it could be. Because this is so different.

You catch my face in your hand and look at me. A small smile on your lips.   
"What?" You ask. Maybe I laughed outwardly without realising. I shake my head. I will tell you but not now. Maybe later. Maybe much later I will tell you everything because now I want to. I want you to know all of me. Even the scars and wounds.

Speaking of which you are tracing the visible lines. The scars and moles and the wound where I dug out a bullet after I got shot. That was before I met you because I dug it out not you. It's just below my ribs. You circle it with gentle fingers and I know you want to ask. I reach out and touch your shoulder.

What do they say? I show you mine you show me yours?

You seem to understand but shake your head. I feel the frown bloom on my face but you kiss it away, you kiss my brow and my nose and my cheeks and my lips and trace patterns over my chest.

"Not yet." You whisper "soon."

It cannot be soon enough.


End file.
